Reflections of a Clone
by starphoenix23
Summary: A clone attempts to resist the destiny planned out for him. He is aided by: a bounty huntress, a Jedi-wannabe, two naïve teenagers, and a shadowy Imperial officer. Notable Appearances: Thrawn, Boba Fett.
1. Chapter 1: Of Hunters and Innocents

**NOTE:** This chapter takes place approximately three years after "The Last Command". 

**FURTHER NOTE: **I don't know if I'm going to finish this, but ever since I read "Vision of the Future," this idea kept growing until I had to write it down. This will _not _be the average "Grand Admiral Thrawn returns" type of fanfic. In this story, I will attempt to delve into the mind of Thrawn...from a very different viewpoint.   
  


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**Chapter 1: Of Hunters and Innocents**

Alaira's eyes darted around the street with her child's enthusiasm. She was unusually alert for a child of six, for her father had taught her to always watch her back. 

Laira glanced up at her father. Derano Vorann was a middle-aged man with a strong athletic build. He possessed a confident attitude that told the world that he knew how to handle himself--and others, if necessary. He wore a black spacer's jumpsuit, with a utility belt full of tools. Over the jumpsuit was a dark green jacket, under which was a hidden blaster-proof lining of the type favored by most smugglers and bounty hunters. Dispersed throughout his clothing were several small blasters and other weapons. Laira knew there was a small thermal detonator in his boot and a holdout blaster up his sleeve. There was also larger blaster on his belt, meant mainly to warn off hostile passerby. Derano had other weapons, she was sure, only Laira did not know where they were hidden. 

Derano, seeing his daughter's look, gave her hand a squeeze. "We're almost to the mechanic's, Laira. And then we'll see about getting those parts we need, eh?" 

Laira nodded happily, and smiled up at the man she called Father. The smile that melted Derano's heart every time. 

_I do not deserve her_, Derano thought briefly. _It was by pure chance that I was the one to find her escape pod. She could have just as easily been picked up by another spacer--and then what would have I done with my life?_

Derano frowned, knowing the answer to that terrible question. Without Alaira, he would have continued on his meaningless life as a bounty hunter--a murderer for hire. A man with no one to care for, and no one to care for him. It was a bleak and empty existence. 

Derano silently thanked whatever higher power there was that Laira had been brought into his life. 

"Father," Alaira whispered quietly, her bright green eyes touched with a little bit of worry and even greater amount of un-childish determination. "There is someone following us. That man in the gray suit." She held up her head, proud that she had made this discovery. Most six-year-olds wouldn't have noticed such a thing. 

"I know, Laira," Derano replied gravely. "He has been following us for the past twenty minutes." 

"Who is he, Father?" Laira asked, her inquisitive green eyes looking to the person she idolized and trusted above all others, the man who knew _everything_, to tell her that it would be all right. 

"I am not sure," Derano replied. "He is a military officer, though, I can tell by the way he carries himself," he added, more to himself than to his daughter. A military officer. But of _which _military, that was the question. 

Laira watched Derano casually slip his left hand into his pocket. Ah, so _that _was where the other blaster was hidden. 

"Quickly," Derano hissed, nudging his daughter into a half-jog, half-walk. Laira needed no further motivation. 

The man following them picked up his pace as well. Now he was only twenty meters behind them. 

Derano could only guess at the identity of the man in gray. Some person seeking revenge for someone he'd once killed? Some ghost from his bounty hunting days come back to haunt him? 

Perhaps he deserved it, Derano mused. Perhaps it would be right and just for Derano to accept the man's vengeance on him. Except for the fact that he had a child to care for, a child who did _not _deserve to become an orphan. Again. 

Derano tightened his grip on his daughter's shoulder. 

_We can stay ahead of him_, Derano thought. _All we need to do is make it to the ship_. 

"Derano Vorann!" the man called loudly, breaking out into an all-out run. 

Derano whirled around, his reflexes honed by years as a bounty hunter. Automatically, his hands gripped the handles of two blasters. He stepped between Alaira and the approaching figure, ready to shield her if the need came. 

The man halted a mere meter away from Derano. He looked into Derano's eyes with no trace of fear, nor did he reach for any weapons of his own. 

"I wish to conduct a business deal with you, Derano Vorann," the man said crisply, in the sharp Coruscant accent only cultivated by... certain types of people. High-ranking Imperial officers, to be precise. 

"What sort of deal?" Derano asked, making no effort to hide the suspicion from his voice. 

"I understand that you are a bounty hunter," the man began. 

"_Was_ a bounty hunter," Derano interrupted, silencing him with a look. 

"Of course," the man replied smoothly. "My apologies." 

"I am not a bounty hunter anymore," Derano continued, his eyes flashing with mistrust. "So if that is the sort of business you require, then you had better leave now. Go find Bossk or Boba Fett." 

"Ah, but Boba Fett is not familiar with the information that I require. Besides, am I correct in assuming that you were once the equal--nay, the _superior_--of the now-infamous Boba Fett?" 

While it was true that Derano had been catching record bounties at a time when Boba Fett was just another young amateur, he was no longer the hotheaded Hunter he had once been. 

"That part of my life is over," Derano replied coolly, trying to shake the persistent memories out of his thoughts. 

"I do not ask for you to return to your days of bounty hunting," the Imperial said, casting a discreet glance at his surroundings. "I merely ask for...information." 

"What sort of information?" 

The gray-clothed Imperial officer grinned slightly. "Have you ever heard of Grand Admiral Thrawn?"   
  
  


Grand Admiral Thrawn. The greatest strategist and military commander that the Empire--and the _galaxy_--had ever seen. He had rallied the unorganized remnants of the Imperial Navy and made them into a formidable fighting force, and a threat to the New Republic. Fortunately for them, he had died three years before, betrayed and murdered by his own bodyguard. 

The conversation had moved to a more private location: Derano's spaceship, the _Starrunner_. Derano and the Imperial, who had introduced himself as Captain Aro Tiers, were seated at the front. Laira played with a practice blaster in the back of the ship, far out of earshot. 

"I understand that you once worked on a...special assignment," Captain Tiers began, leaning forward. His eyes were locked on Derano's and his gaze was one of intense determination. This information was clearly very important to him. "An assignment that involved locating a certain weapon. An assassin's knife once belonging to a certain Rukh, clan Degh'kor, of the Noghri people." 

Derano tilted his head slightly to the right, remembering that bounty. Obtaining the knife had been a simple matter: it had been merely locked away in some nameless storage closet on some minor Imperial base. All Derano had had to do was break in, remove a few of the guards...Derano shook his head slightly, trying to clear the memory from his mind. 

"I assume that you know the knife's history?" Tiers prompted. 

"Yes," Derano replied. "Three years ago Rukh used the knife to assassinate Grand Admiral Thrawn." 

The Imperial nodded slowly, giving a bitter grin. "And the Empire has been degenerating ever since. Spiritually and morally, as well as in physical terms of size and power." His eyes were unfocused for a second, as if he too were lost in memories. Then the Imperial regained his businesslike attitude. "You are experienced with criminal elements, Vorann--I am sure you know what was done with the knife. Or, shall I say, the residue left on it." 

"Residue," Derano repeated. "Thrawn's blood, you mean." 

"Exactly," the Imperial replied. "Which, of course, contained his entire DNA sequence." 

The two men were silent for a moment, each with his own thoughts on the matter. 

"I was not involved in the cloning process," Derano said slowly, after a time. "I only delivered the bounty." He paused, realizing how he sounded. It was strange, how easily the old phrases and rationalizations came back to him. _I only delivered the bounty. Therefore, I should feel no guilt when others use it for nefarious purposes. I had no direct part in that, and bear no responsibility. _Typical bounty hunter ethics. 

Oh, how easy it had been to believe such reasoning back in his bounty hunting years. But now Derano knew better. He _had_ delivered the knife. He had known whom he was giving the knife to, what it would be used for. The result _was_ his responsibility, at least partially. 

"Who was the recipient of this...delivery?" Aro Tiers asked. His statement had the slightest ring of condemnation to it. Derano did not protest this. 

"I do not know the actual recipient," Derano admitted. "I gave the knife to a middleman, Frel Darton of Nar Shaddaa." 

"And Darton gave the knife to a cloner by the name of Evazan," the Imperial added smoothly, startling Derano with knowledge that even he had not known. "Lexicor Evazan." 

"_The _Evazan?" Derano repeated. "As in 'Doctor Death'?" 

"No, not the same man as the infamous Doctor Death," Tiers corrected. "Lexicor Evazan was his son. Apparently he took up the same trade as his father--illegal scientific research." 

Derano frowned, digesting this new information. "You seem to know more about this than I do," he said, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. "So why come to me for information you already know?" 

"Let me explain. You will understand in a moment." 

Derano leaned back in his chair. Although he had adopted a relaxed posture, Derano's eyes remained alert, never leaving Tiers as he listened to the Imperial speak. 

"Evazan created a clone from the DNA of Grand Admiral Thrawn. He, with the aid of a well-connected client, obtained a flash-learning template imprinted with most of Thrawn's memories. As for where he found this, you do not need to know. Evazan grew the clone to the age of six standard years, at which time he began the flash-learning process. The process, however, was not completed before a Jedi Knight named Corran Horn broke up Evazan's criminal operations with the aid of a New Republic security force. And thus, Thrawn's memories were not fully transferred. In fact, the clone retains no memories whatsoever of his original's life. 

"This six-year-old clone was taken into New Republic custody, where a great deal of important figures lost weight and gained gray hairs while debating what to do with him. The matter was eventually closed behind a great many classified files buried deep within New Republic computer archives...The clone himself was placed inside an orphanage. Here, on Relcar, this very planet." 

"And you want me to break him out of this orphanage?" Derano guessed, frowning in disgust. Derano knew how those Imperials would manipulate the innocent child, what they would do with the clone of the galaxy's greatest strategic mind. Didn't Tiers say that the clone was six years old? The same age as Laira... "To deliver him to you?" 

"No," Aro Tiers replied, surprising Derano with his answer. "The clone is safe at the orphanage. What we need is for--" 

"We?" Derano repeated. "And who do you mean by 'we'?" 

"'We' refers to my employers and I," Tiers replied, unfazed by the abrupt question. "Our organization is greatly interested in the safety of Thrawn's clone." 

"And what is this organization of yours?" 

"It's located in the Unknown Regions. You wouldn't know it." 

"Is this organization Imperial?" Derano asked coldly. 

For the briefest of seconds, the Imperial looked slightly caught off guard by the question. But he recovered his composure within a nanosecond. "That wouldn't matter in the least." 

"I like to know who I'm working for," Derano retorted. 

Tiers grinned, impressed by Derano's deduction. "I can see that I found the right man. Yes, the organization is Imperial, but not of the same Empire as the regime on Bastion. No, the leaders of Bastion are weak and corrupt. The Empire I belong to is not like them. We value justice and order above greed and lust for power. We see ourselves as the True Empire, the Empire as it should have been. But I have told you enough. Will you help us?" 

"What would you want me to do?" Derano asked neutrally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. 

"Protect the clone," Tiers replied, his steel gray eyes boring intently into Derano's brown ones. "There are many organizations who would want to use him. I have duties with my organization, far away from this part of the galaxy. I cannot stay on Relcar to stop those who would try to capture him. But _you _can." 

"Why should I care?" Derano suddenly stood up, the forceful movement causing the chair to shift back with a loud screech. "I have my _own _life and a daughter to care for. I cannot risk her life and mine for the sake of your nameless Imperial organization. _You_ protect your precious clone--I_ cannot_." 

Tiers stood up, more slowly than Derano had. He was slightly shorter than Derano, but the piercing gaze he gave the former Hunter made Tiers seem to be the taller of the two. "Spoken like a true bounty hunter." He executed a sharp military turn and began to walk away. 

Derano let his breath out in a low hiss, his emotions in turmoil. The clone's existence was his fault, his responsibility. He owed the young clone his protection... 

But what about Laira? And his own life? That Imperial had no right to barge in and demand Derano's service. Derano was no longer a mercenary for hire. 

But the clone was his responsibility. Finally, Derano had a chance to undo some of his crimes as a bounty hunter. How could he resist this opportunity to repay the galaxy for the harm he had inflicted? 

_ No, it is over now_, Derano thought. _I am no longer a Hunter. I have raised Laira as I would a daughter of my own flesh and blood...isn't that enough? Please, do not demand this of me..._

Derano knew what he had to do. 

"Tiers!" he called, causing the Imperial to pause while halfway out the door. "What is the name of this boy?" 

For children like his daughter and the young clone did not deserve to be hunted down and used as pawns in terrible schemes. They were innocent, and such innocence had to be treasured and guarded. And preserved for as long as possible. 

Aro Tiers turned back, showing no hint of surprise on his laser-sharp military features. "The only name he has is the name the orphanage gave him. 'Rolan'."   
  


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And so it begins. So, what do you think? Is the story believable? Please review! Constructive criticism would be appreciated. (And flames would not.) 

Next, in chapter 2, we will skip ahead several years and see the emerging young clone. And a few chapters after that, we will see as Laira is thrust into the duties of her father... 


	2. Chapter 2: Forgotten Memories

**SOME BASIC INFO ABOUT THE STORY:**

This story has two main characters: Rolan (the young clone of Thrawn) and Laira Vorann (the daughter of an ex-bounty hunter). I also have a few other original characters that will be introduced in Chapter 3. But we will see some notable canon characters as well. Admiral Voss Parck and Baron Soontir Fel will come into this after a while. And, Starknight, Boba Fett will make his appearance in Chapter 4 (but I already have that part partially written, so don't worry about having to wait months to read it.) 

**ANOTHER NOTE: **Here, in chapter 2, I will introduce Rolan (the clone). Now, remember, he's fourteen in this chapter (he'll be older in Ch 3). So, needless to say, he's not going to be the genius Grand Admiral we're familiar with--he's young, naïve, and painfully inexperienced (for now). However, you will occasionally find him displaying certain habits of his original. Please, tell me if (despite the fact that he's younger) Rolan/Thrawn seems out of character or anything.   
  
  


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_"What do you think he'll be like? I mean, how close to the original Thrawn will he be?"_

_ "That's an argument that's been going on for decades. With the same genetic structure plus a flash-learning pattern taken directly from the template, a clone should theoretically be completely identical to the original person. But, despite that, they're never exactly the same. Maybe some of the mental subtleties get blurred over in transition, or maybe there's something else unique inside us that a flash-learning reader isn't able to pick up. He'll presumably have all of Thrawn's memories. But will he have his genius, or his leadership, or his single-minded drive? I don't know."_

--Mara Jade and Luke Skywalker, in Star Wars: Vision of the Future, by Timothy Zahn   


_"Do not trust your memory; it is a net full of holes..."_   
-Georges Duhamel, The Heart's Domain   
  
  


**Chapter 2: Forgotten Memories**   


_ "Are you sure we didn't tell the bounty hunter too much, sir?"_

_ "No, we told him the perfect amount of information to make him useful."_

_ "I don't understand, sir."_

_ "Derano Vorann now knows enough to be sympathetic to the young clone's situation. Besides, he is a former bounty hunter with a strong sense of guilt and justice...I knew, even as I was walking away, that he would agree to help us. To right one of the wrongs he committed so long ago."_

_ "Ah, I see."_

_ "Know your enemy, lieutenant. That's what it boils down to. You must always know the mindset of the person you're dealing with. The late Grand Admiral Thrawn had his ways of learning about his enemy, namely through the study of art. And I have mine."_

_ "I...I heard you were one of his protégés, Captain Tiers."_

_ "You heard correctly, lieutenant. I served under him in the Unknown Regions. When I was but a lowly technician, he noticed my unusual...aptitude. He took me on as his student."_

_ "Sir, exactly how much does the clone remember?"_

_ "Nothing, at the moment. It is believed that some of his memories will resurface in time, but as for now, they are buried deep inside the clone's subconscious. If they were even transferred at all. The clone is much like a person with amnesia: he knows how to speak, read, and such, but he doesn't know his true name."_

_ "So the clone is useless."_

_ "How did you reach that conclusion, lieutenant?"_

_ "Why...he is being raised in a _Rebel _orphanage! Who knows what propaganda they are filling his mind with! Even if we could get him out and off-planet, he wouldn't _want_ to help us!"_

_ "As for the first problem, propaganda can always be disproved. The clone, Rolan, will still be trainable by the time we get him. He will come to see the cause we fight for. As for the second problem, actually getting him offworld, well, that will pass in time. Now the New Republic is on high alert, with undercover operatives guarding him from all sides. But as time passes, they will see Rolan growing older and becoming just like any other child, and they will relax. As they see him growing into a teenage boy interested in odd music and females, they will let their guard down. I guarantee that in ten years the clone won't be guarded by a tenth of the people he is now, if the Rebels spare someone to watch him at all. And it is then that we will take him."_

_ "It makes sense, sir."_

_ "Good. Now, we must depart before one of those undercover operatives finds _us_."_   
  
  


**Setting: Eight years later (and one year after VotF--Rolan is fourteen):**

_ "Red alert!" someone cried. "They're coming in from all sides!"_

_ The floor shook fiercely, and Rolan's hands tightly gripped...something. The armrests of a chair, it appeared to be._

_ They were being attacked, Rolan's dream-self knew, though the real Rolan wouldn't have guessed. However, Rolan's dream-self was much more experienced in such matters._

_ Everyone was looking to Rolan, waiting for him to say something. It was as if they depended on him, as if they needed his direction. Rolan's dream-self found their attitudes perfectly natural--Rolan's real self found them confusing._

_ Rolan's dream-self knew exactly what to do, as he always did. He stood confidently and opened his mouth to speak--_   
  
  


"Wake UP, Blue!" the boy in the bunk above Rolan shouted. "Hey, Blu-ey! Time to get up!" 

It was Physicals Time at the Derian-Coems Children's Home on Relcar. 

Dek jumped off his bunk and cheerfully pulled the covers from Rolan's bed. Rolan inwardly winced at the sudden burst of cold air. 

"Okay, Blue, I'm leavin'--you can follow if you want!" 

'Blue' was what all the other orphans called Rolan. It wasn't a very imaginative nickname, in his opinion. 

Dek, after doing "lightning" with the glowlamp switch, left. 

Rolan sat up and shook the last remnants of the dream from his mind. He tried to remember the dream, but it was already fading from his memory. Rolan could only recall that he had been on some sort of spaceship. Its walls had been gray-colored and dull: coldly functional, and not meant for esthetic pleasure. A warship. 

Rolan wasn't able to remember much else. He had seen dim outlines of other people in his dream, but he couldn't tell their age, gender, or even their species. Rolan's dreams lacked visual clarity as well as sense. 

The ship had been attacked. Rolan had no idea _who _had been attacking, he only knew that another ship had been shooting at the one he was on. In the dream, he had known the attacker's identity, but he couldn't remember it now that he was awake. 

But then again, Rolan's dream-self always seemed to know exactly what he was doing. If only Rolan could be that confident in real life. 

_(A good commander must always show confidence)_

Now _where _had that thought come from? Rolan was confused and ignorant--the two emotions he hated most of all. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind. 

Rolan forced the last vestiges of the dream from his thoughts and automatically groped for a clean shirt in his dresser drawer. He found it and quickly changed his clothes, pausing only to fold up his night-clothes and place them neatly inside the drawer. Rolan, unlike his roommate, was organized. Meanwhile, Dek was fond of putting his dirty clothes in piles around the room, only washing them when they started to smell. The rest of his stuff was likewise strewn about the ground. 

Such disorganization annoyed Rolan. Was it _really _so hard to wash one's clothes and keep them from collecting dust and strange moldy growths while piled on the floor? Occasionally he would stop to clean out Dek's half of the room, much to Dek's annoyance. Dek called him a "neat-freak", but Rolan wasn't fanatical about it or anything. He just liked a little ORDER, that was all. 

Rolan stood up, walked to the door, yet paused before exiting, savoring the silence and solitude of being the only person in the room. Rolan liked privacy, a rare and prized commodity in an orphanage. He spent most of his free time in his room or in the library--reading, studying, or even just contemplating on whatever caught his interest. The orphanage's pediatrician and amateur psychiatrist, Dr. Melanie Pryko, had him pegged as "antisocial" because of this. Rolan didn't much care--he didn't respect Dr. Pryko anyway. He firmly believed that the woman was an idiot, though he never voiced this opinion. 

Rolan made his way down to the kitchen. The cook was serving oddly-flavored substances that were _supposed _to be waffles. 

Rolan glanced around at the others, watching them eat their stale breakfast, crowd around the two good HoloViewers, or complain about the biannual physicals they'd be getting today. Life as usual at the Derian-Coems Children's Home. 

The Derian-Coems Children's Home wasn't bad, as orphanages went. It wasn't overcrowded, there was a bedroom for every two kids, and the kitchen served three large meals a day, as well as snacks. When one thought about orphanages in other parts of the galaxy, where child labor and abuse was common, the D-C wasn't such a bad place to be. 

The D-C had a competent staff that was thoroughly background-checked, with a "decent" cook, a capable director, and a full-time doctor who was also an official "child psychology specialist" (however, the last person was actually more of a curse than a blessing...). 

The D-C staff had a reputation for "caring about its orphans just as they would care for their own children". In fact, they didn't even call the D-C an "orphanage". Instead, it was a "Children's Home". As if there was a difference. Did they think that calling the D-C an orphanage would make the kids _upset _or something? Rolan supposed that the name was Dr. Pryko's idea. It sounded like something she would do. He could just imagine her: "Now, we shouldn't damage the children's tender psyches by mentioning their orphan--er, lack of parentage..." Rolan inwardly groaned. 

Rolan sat down at a secluded table in the living area. He knew that if Pryko was watching, she'd be making notes about his "antisocial behavior", but he wasn't concerned. She'd been doing that sort of thing ever since he was sent to the D-C at the age of six. 

It wasn't as if Rolan really was antisocial. If someone from the other tables invited him to join, he'd go over in a nanosecond. But Rolan did not have many friends among the other orphans. 

Maybe it was because he didn't have much in common with the other kids. He was an introvert by nature, studious and intellectual, very different from his rowdy, often superficial fellow D-C residents. He constantly used larger words that others were not used to. (Rolan didn't deliberately do this to make others uncomfortable--his reading level was just higher than theirs.) Also, Rolan actually paid attention in school (gasp). Could he help it if he found the latest Chemistry lesson interesting? Rolan liked learning; or, to be more accurate, he liked the feeling of confidence that knowledge gave him. It was these and other little things that made Rolan so different from the others. 

Not least among his differences was the fact that he was an alien among mostly Humans. Even though the D-C was known for accepting alien orphans as well as Human ones, Rolan was about as alien as they got. His blue skin and glowing red eyes were "freaky", as another orphan had once so eloquently put it. Rolan didn't even know what _species _he was. No one like him was mentioned in the _Encyclopedia Galactica_. Nor did anyone in the staff seem to know, not even those who had worked there when Rolan was brought in at the age of six. 

Rolan himself couldn't remember ever having parents. In fact, the first thing he remembered was being surrounded by tall people--mostly Humans, though there other species present as well--   
  
  


_Colors and sounds assaulted his senses, as the boy took his first true breath. At first, it was simply enough to _exist_--he desired nothing more. He reveled in his new awareness, savoring each new sensation. The table under him was stiff and unyielding, yet strangely smooth. Cold air touched his bare skin, causing him to shiver. And yet, there was something...refreshing about that sensation, the feeling of being cold. He had never been cold before. The air woke him up, made him more alert.___

_He heard soft murmurs around him, of dozens of different tones and pitches. They seemed to blend together in a strange melody, soothing the young boy. However, the whispers gradually formed into coherent words. At first the boy listened with wonder. He was beginning to understand them! Yet as the voices became more understandable, the less comforting they were.___

_It was then that he formed his first coherent thought. _I wonder where all these voices are coming from. _What was going on around him? And, more important, was it dangerous?___

_He opened his eyes to discover the world.___

_At first, all he saw was a blinding white light. Once his eyes adjusted, however, he could see dozens of beings. They towered above him and peered down at him with grim expressions. It was almost as if they were...watching him. Examining his every move.___

_It was an unpleasant sensation.___

_He blinked up at the people above him, and slowly turned his head to take in more of his surroundings. He was on some sort of table, in a bright white-colored room. (A hospital room.) The bright glowlamps hurt his eyes, and he flinched, as any child would.___

_"Do you remember anything?" a woman asked him, her sharp voice piercing through the air. The boy was amazed to realize that he could understand her, but his astonishment gave way to other, less pleasant, emotions.___

_The boy was confused. And cold. And starting to become scared. However, he knew not to let them see his fear.___

_He stared up at the people and opened his mouth, somehow finding the words to speak.___

_"Where am I?" he asked, his child's voice small, yet clear.___

_"Do you remember who you are?" another person pressed. "Do you remember your name?"___

_Rolan couldn't speak. Nor would he have had anything to say had he been able to. Why, he couldn't remember _anything_! He didn't know his name! Did he even HAVE a name? What was going on? Who were all these people?___

_The observers let out a collective sigh of relief, relaxing, even as the boy on the table was panicking. "The memory transfer didn't work," a man breathed. "Evazan failed."___

_"That is fortunate for us..."_   
  
  
  


The tall people had argued for a bit, Rolan remembered. He couldn't remember exactly what they were arguing about, only that it had something to do with him. Then they had left. 

Eventually he had been brought to the Derian-Coems Children's Home. 

Dr. Pryko entered the cafeteria/ living area, her arrival shaking Rolan out of his reverie. She stopped by a table to talk briefly to some of the orphans. 

Rolan briefly wondered if he had enough time to make an escape. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was Pryko psychoanalyzing him. 

As if by an instinct, Rolan immediately began analyzing his possible escape routes. Well, he couldn't go out the door by the kitchen--it was too close to Pryko. Neither could he go out the door by the water fountain--that was directly in Pryko's line of sight. That only left one choice: the door by the HoloViewers. However, that door was behind a large crowd of kids sitting sprawled out on the various pieces of furniture, gazing attentively at some action Holovid. It would take needed time for Rolan to navigate his way through them. 

_Oh well_, Rolan thought. _It's the best option. _Besides, a crowd had its tactical advantages; it could help to hide him from Pryko's untrained eye. 

Rolan quietly got up and made for the door by the HoloViewers, moving slowly so as to not attract attention. 

Then Dr. Pryko looked up. 

_No..._

"Ah, Rolan, you haven't taken your physical yet," she called. "Come with me." 

"_Riodo d'viel_," Rolan muttered under his breath. Then he realized that he hadn't spoken Basic. 

Sometimes, when he least expected it, Rolan found himself talking in another language. He knew this language perfectly, as if he had been raised to speak it. He just didn't know _how_ he had learned to speak it. 

_(Eulakos 'vel trae, Chiss'an derac s'ril.)_

The language was strangely musical in sound, yet deceptively complex. Pronouncing it was practically a form of art. _Yes, art_, Rolan mused. It seemed a fitting analogy, for reasons that he couldn't quite explain. 

_{Ta 've naer'tu rem sfa're thoreinn miu're.)_

Maybe it was something unique to his species. Maybe everyone of his kind knew how to speak from birth. It was a stretch, but it was the only hypothesis Rolan could make. 

_(Derac chiss'ani s'ril na leichon na sfa're.)_

Rolan wished he knew more about his people. In a way, he was more of an orphan than the others. At least they knew what SPECIES they were. While Rolan had no idea. 

_(Chiss'ani 'vel trae. Chiss'ani 'vel trae.)_

"Come along, Rolan," Pryko said, her high-pitched voice jerking Rolan out of his thoughts and back into reality. 

Rolan grudgingly followed Dr. Pryko to her office--a small six by eight foot room that she guarded zealously. Inside was room for a desk, two chairs in front of it, and several "inspirational" posters that proclaimed platitudes like: "Go the Distance," "Be Yourself," and "Stay in School". 

Rolan glanced at Dr. Pryko. She was a small, round woman with frizzy black hair and an eyebrow-less face (yes, it was true: she had NO eyebrows! Or, at least, they were very faint.) She had a loud, high-pitched voice, and loved to hear herself talk. 

"I noticed you were sitting alone, Rolan," Dr. Pryko began, in her "concerned" voice. 

_Oh, no_, Rolan thought. _Not this again.___

Rolan tried valiantly to tune her out, instead focusing his attention on the stuff in her room. There was a picture of her and a Rodian preelo-dog (apparently the closest thing to a family she had--she clearly didn't have her pick of eager boyfriends). Around that was a mess of notepads and pencils. Next to her computer terminal was an old psychology textbook lying open with pages of it eagerly highlighted in bright yellow ink. 

On the wall there was a weird sculpture of a bird with the head of an ugly woman. It was large, bulky, and exceedingly unattractive. One could also call it "nauseating". 

_(Thoaalan abstract art.)_

Rolan inwardly grimaced. Anyone with that weird of a taste in art had to be crazy, he mused. 

"...you will, right?" Dr. Pryko was saying, her eyebrow-less face leaning forward. Rolan looked right into her eyes, his glowing stare causing her to look away in discomfort. Exactly the reaction he had been going for. 

"Yes, ma'am," Rolan replied, giving her the response she clearly wanted to hear, despite the fact that he had no idea what she had asked. Oh well. Due to the fact that she wasn't making little scribbles in her psychology notebook, Rolan assumed that he had made the correct answer. Dr. Pryko was so easy to read. 

"Well, let's get on with the physical then, shall we?" Dr. Pryko asked, leading Rolan into the examination room. "You look fine to me, even though I don't know much about your species' physiology. But let's take a look..." 

Rolan inwardly sighed, and prepared for a half hour of torture and utter boredom.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


Well, how was it? Was Rolan in character? Please review and tell me. As always, helpful criticism is appreciated and flames are **_not_**. 


	3. Chapter 3: Never Average

And now we get to see Rolan in high school. *mischievous grin* This part is pretty lighthearted and (I hope) humorous. This is also where two new characters are introduced: Sorias Sephrion and Jaec Forton.   


* * *

  


Chapter 3: Never Average 

Alliances. Betrayals. Grief. Fear. Leaders. Outcasts. Exploitation. 

Some would call this warfare. Rolan called it high school. 

This particular battle was the third period Galactic History class. 

Rolan's enemy: Miss Herrim. 

Miss Herrim was a short woman with frizzy blond hair and a vacant expression. She always wore "bright, cheerful clothes" and walked into the room with a huge, goofy grin that she usually lost within two minutes. She really tried to be a good teacher, Rolan supposed. Could she help it if she didn't have an ounce of talent? Rolan almost pitied Miss Herrim. Then he would hear her lesson of the day: "another chart about the hierarchy of the Old Republic!" and lose all feelings of compassion for her. 

Mission objective: stay awake until the bell chimes. Which was always easier said than done. 

"Good morning, class," Miss Herrim said cheerfully in her usual too-quiet-to-hear voice. "Today we will be studying different styles of government. And to do this we will be--" 

_ Please_, Rolan begged whatever higher power was out there. _Not another chart._

"--breaking up into groups--" 

Could it be? Something that _wasn't _one of those prakking charts? 

"--to make a chart." 

Nooooo! 

The entire class groaned as one. 

"This will be fun!" Miss Herrim muttered, trying to keep up her disgustingly-cheerful attitude. 

"Now I will assign the different groups," Miss Herrim continued, causing the class to groan again. 

Miss Herrim began rattling off the names. Rolan listened, hoping that he wouldn't get paired with slackers or anti-alien racists. Well, there were only probably four real, die-hard human supremacists in Rolan's entire grade of three hundred people, but these four had a way of pressuring others into acting the way they did. 

"And the last group will have to have three...um, let's see: Sorias, Jaec, and...who haven't I paired yet...uh...Rolan. Your group will be studying the autocracy. Go sit by your groups, everybody." 

Rolan got up, grabbed his portable computer terminal (PCT), and went over to Sorias Sephrion and Jaec Forton. 

Rolan didn't know much about either of them. Some kids in high school had a way of being overlooked by everyone except for their immediate friends. They were the average ones, the ones with no unique differences--no positive differences as well as negative. Rolan had the advantage of them in this respect; at least with blue skin, red eyes, and his intellectual demeanor there was never a chance that he'd go unnoticed. And that was, in its own way, a good thing. Although some kids ridiculed Rolan for his appearance, (behind his back, of course--no one dared do this to his face) at least Rolan would never get overlooked as average. If there was one thing Rolan did _not _want to be, it was _Average_. 

"Hey," Jaec said, sounding slightly nervous as Rolan met his stare. 

"Greetings," Sorias added, inclining his head in a formal half-bow. It was an odd gesture that looked vaguely comical, despite the boy's serious expression. 

Rolan nodded back. "Hello," Rolan replied in his usual neutral and composed tone. 

Rolan watched as Jaec minimized the game screen on his PCT. Miss Herrim was so boring that her class took it upon themselves to gain amusement through playing games during her lecture. Sure, there were those who tried to do that during _every _class, but only in Miss Herrim's class could one find 90% of the students doing this (the other 10% was composed of Rolan, who got by through ignoring Miss Herrim and, in extremely boring cases, reading novels downloaded on his PCT, and Keli, a teacher's pet who did not know when to stop). Miss Herrim knew that everyone in her class was playing games on their PCTs, and would occasionally try to stop them with feeble threats that she never carried out. But most of the time, the class was too quick for her. Miss Herrim would try to catch someone in the act, but always find an innocent-looking child diligently taking notes on their PCT (the game having been exited a mere two seconds before). 

That was one of Miss Herrim's problems. She wasn't strict enough. A good teacher had to keep _order _in the classroom, not let the class get away with everything. It was preferable that a teacher be so compelling that the class would listen to his or her every word through sheer interest. But if that failed, then the teacher had to _impose_ discipline, for the good of the student. 

_(Much like a military leader.)_

Miss Herrim, it seemed, would not have been a capable soldier had she been old enough to fight during the War. Rolan tried to imagine Herrim as an officer on a starship, and barely suppressed a laugh. ("Um...the Imperials_ (no, the Rebels)_ are attacking us...hold on, let me make a chart on our options...") 

Jaec, who was sitting across from Rolan, noticed the spark of amusement in his expression, and asked, "What's so funny?" 

"Nothing," Rolan replied quickly. But Jaec and Sorias insisted on knowing. 

"Fine," Rolan relented, and quietly shared his vision of Miss Herrim as a soldier. 

Jaec snickered softly, while Sorias gave out a burst of laughter. He broke off, realizing how loud he had been, and lowered his head behind his PCT screen, trying to escape notice. Jaec kicked him under the table. 

"Ow..." Sorias muttered. "Thanks a lot..." 

"I don't think all of you are talking about government..." Miss Herrim mumbled, not taking her eyes off of her magazine. The three boys waited to hear if she would say any more, but Miss Herrim was too engrossed in what she was reading. 

Sorias sighed in relief. 

"She's a pain," Jaec whispered. "Only one class of all the freshmen got her--and WE get stuck in it...just our lousy luck, I suppose." 

"I don't believe in luck," Sorias argued. "We are here because of the will of the Force. We have a purpose in this class--even if we don't know what it is yet." 

"Not this again," Jaec muttered, shaking his head. He turned to Rolan, and added, "Ignore him," jerking a hand in Sorias's direction. "He's a Jedi-wannabe." 

"I have Jedi potential," Sorias insisted. "A Knight named Kam Solusar once offered to take me to the Jedi Academy on Yavin IV, once I get older, of course. I will become a Jedi Knight some day." 

"If your dad lets you," Jaec said pessimistically. 

Sorias sighed. "I'm still hoping I can change his mind." He awkwardly ran a hand through his disheveled yellow hair. 

"Okay, class," Miss Herrim interrupted. "It's time to present our findings. We'll start off with the least advanced type of government: the autocracy. I believe Jaec's group covered that." She motioned toward the board, where she had already drawn a hasty chart with the headings of the different types of government and their descriptions. 

Rolan stood up and walked to the chart with his partners, projecting an aura of calm composure. Jaec and Sorias glanced at each other with worried looks. They hadn't done a single thing to prepare. Neither, for that matter, had Rolan. 

_ The bell rings in five minutes, _Jaec thought. _So we just talk till then. Easy. _He swallowed hard. _I hope._

"An autocracy," Jaec began. "Is the least advanced form of government. As Miss Herrim already said." 

"Yeah," Sorias offered helpfully. 

There was an uncomfortable silence. The class's eyes were all focused on the PCT screens, though Jaec highly doubted that they were taking notes. Miss Herrim, however, was watching with her full attention. Jaec shifted uncomfortably. 

Then Rolan spoke up. 

"An autocracy," Rolan began, making his voice sound confident and knowledgeable, "also known as a monarchy or a dictatorship, is a government where all power rests solely with one person: the autocrat. An example from recent history would be the Galactic Empire, which was ruled by, obviously, an emperor. The emperor Palpatine had complete control of his government, or at least he tried to. However, ruling an empire spanning the entire known galaxy proved to be too much for him to handle in the end, for he could not even guarantee loyalty from his right-hand man, Darth Vader, who, as you well know, killed him. Apparently Emperor Palpatine was not proficient at maintaining the loyalty of his followers, something a leader _must _do. 

"There are other, more benign, examples of autocracies. For example, the government of Charou IV is ruled by a Priest-King, and has been for five millennia. But working autocracies are hard to find." 

"Cuz the leaders are often psycho," Jaec supplies, trying to help. 

"Absolute power corrupts absolutely," Sorias added philosophically. 

"Exactly," Rolan continued, nodding. "Of course, autocracies have their advantages. For in republics or democracies, leaders waste weeks, months, or even years arguing about how to get something done. Whereas, in an autocracy, the leader does _not _have to consult such things as a Senate or any other council of advisors, thus causing things to get done more quickly. 

"I suppose what it all comes down to is whether the leader is capable or not. Emperor Palpatine was power-mad, as were many other autocrats throughout history. But if there were to rise an autocrat concerned only with justice and order, not power, then perhaps an autocracy could work. But such a monarch would be rare, if not impossible, to find." 

Jaec and Sorias nodded, trying to look involved in the presentation. 

"So autocracies are bad," Jaec finished. "And that about wraps it up," 

The bell rang. 

The class rose as one and left the room to go to lunch. 

Rolan, Jaec, and Sorias grabbed their bags and hurried out the door behind everyone else. 

"Whew!" Jaec cried, once they had exited the classroom. "I hate presentations!" 

"You and me both," Sorias agreed. "I didn't think we'd make five minutes." 

"That was great!" Jaec suddenly enthused, turning to Rolan and giving him a vigorous slap on the back. Rolan inwardly marveled at the strangeness of it. Such a comradely gesture...directed at _him_. How odd. "That was the best BS-ing I've ever seen!" 

"Thanks," Rolan replied, the corners of his mouth turning upward in an expression that he rarely used. "I don't know how I did it," he admitted. "The words just came to me." 

"I wish words would 'come' to me like that!" Jaec replied. "I wouldn't be failing Bocce right now!" 

"You aren't failing Bocce, Jaec," Sorias insisted. 

"Oh, yeah? The teacher's out to get me, I swear!" 

"Mrs. Sosska?" 

"Yeah, that's her. And all because I called her a "mister" at the beginning of the year. I mean, she's a Trandoshan, for Force's sake! How am I supposed to tell?!" 

The two Humans laughed. 

"I should've taken Huttese," Jaec grumbled. "At least then I'd know some good curses." 

"Don't wish that. I heard it's almost impossible to pronounce." 

"Well, I bet the teacher's nicer than Sosska!" 

"I think the teacher's a droid. So while you can bet he'd be nicer, he'd sure be a lot more boring." 

"So, what's worse, getting bored to death with a droid or scared to death with Mrs. Sosska and her sharp claws and pointy teeth? No thanks--I'll take the droid." 

"I've heard Mrs. Sosska makes the class interesting, though." 

"Interesting?! Hah!" 

Rolan could tell that this was an old argument between the two. 

The three boys continued on, until they reached the lunchroom. 

Ah, the cafeteria. One of the primary battlegrounds of Rolan's war to get through high school. 

Navigating this war zone was a tricky business. Everyone belonged to a specific territory, and if you intruded on someone else's...the consequences weren't good. 

First there were the "Jocks", with their generally immature ways and arrogant attitudes _(Overconfidence is a great tactical weakness). _Next there were the "Preppies", the girls (and occasionally, guys) obsessed with clothes, money, and other material things. Then there were the lower social strata: the myriads of "nobodies", average kids—neither "cool" nor "uncool"—with nothing that set them apart. These average kids looked up to the Preppies and the Jocks, and one day wished to attain their goal of being accepted into the popular group. Then there were the "Geeks" (people with a large amount of technical skills and a great admiration for geniuses like Qwi Xux and the renowned slicer Ghent), the "Freaks" (who, unlike Rolan, deliberately _dyed_ their skin unnatural shades and spiked up their hair until it was almost sharp enough to be used as a weapon), and the "Criminals" (who idolized "role models" like Talon Karrde and Boba Fett). People belonging to these groups only sat with others of the same social class. It was an unwritten rule. If someone tried to rise in status, they were subject to embarrassment and ultimate failure. 

Rolan was disgusted by the politics of it all. Such divisions were so _pointless_. If the student body would only work together, they could actually _accomplish _something worthwhile. 

But that would never happen. This was High School. Everyone had their place. Except for Rolan. 

Rolan was a loner. He just didn't seem to fit in any of the aforementioned groups. He liked to believe that he surpassed such stereotypes. Or perhaps he was just too different. 

Rolan supposed that, given his unusual appearance, the Freaks would readily accept him. But their displays of pointless rebellion weren't really his style. 

So Rolan was a loner, always sitting alone and keeping to himself. 

Until now. For it seemed to Rolan that he had just found two friends. (Or rather, _they _had found _him_.) Well, they weren't _friends_, not yet. But it was a start. 

The three boys moved through the lunch line, tried not to gag when they saw their "food", and moved for a table. Rolan paused for a second, then decided to join them. _Let's see how this plays out_, Rolan decided. He didn't like improvising (he preferred to have a plan already in place), but he could do it. 

Jaec and Sorias continued their discussion of the school's most evil teachers. Rolan spoke up occasionally, and the two would always let him speak. It was a different situation than usual, to say the least. 

Jaec was in the middle of a story about someone's Chemistry class antics. 

"And then," he was saying. "Mr. Cofran came by, and saw the spilled acid...And Josik picked that precise moment to let his model volcano go off...and BOOM!" He slapped the table and broke out laughing, unable to narrate it any longer. 

"So," Sorias took over. "Josik and Delf got detention...Mr. Cofran had to get a new tie...and our Chemistry class was left with a memory they would never forget." He too burst out laughing. 

Rolan felt a deep laugh coming from his own throat. 

Jaec looked at Rolan incredulously. Rolan always looked so serious, and--truth be told--intimidating (it was probably the glowing red eyes). He hadn't even known that Rolan's species _could _smile. 

_Strange_, he thought. _I've seen him so often in school, and yet I didn't even know the most basic stuff about him. He was always alone and solemn-looking...I thought he was a freak. Have I ever even talked to him before today? It's weird, how things are. You think you know a guy, and it turns out he's completely different_... Jaec broke off his train of thought, realizing that it was starting to sound like one of Sorias's crazy philosophical ramblings. 

"Hey, Rolan," Jaec said suddenly. "You're an okay guy. A little stiff, but we can fix that." He grinned at Sorias. 

"Oh, yes," Sorias agreed, nodding conspiratorially. "So where do we begin?" 

"I'll teach him about the wonderful world of Comedy," Jaec replied, suddenly looking devious. "I'll start with the great Corellian Masters. You know, guys like Dougas Adrams and his 'Hitchhiker's Guide to the Universe' books. And Montyn Pytho. Definitely Montyn Pytho." 

"I have their entire first season on holovid," Sorias offered. "We can watch it this Saturday." 

"Good," Jaec replied, giving a satisfied nod. 

Rolan looked from one to other. "Do I have a choice in this matter?" he asked, his voice matter-of-fact. Despite his serious exterior, he was inwardly laughing at the strangeness of it all. 

"No," Jaec replied bluntly. "You don't." He turned back to Sorias, unusually businesslike. "Okay, I've got Humor, what will you teach him?" 

"Philosophy," Sorias replied, his tone dead serious. "You know, Jedi teachings and such." 

"Philosophy?!" Jaec cried. "Why in Force's name would he want to learn about that?" He turned to Rolan. "Ignore him, Sor's a Jedi-wannabe who's always stuck in his own world." 

"And what's wrong with _that_?" Sorias demanded, feigning offense. "I happen to _like _my world, thank you very much!" 

"See what I mean," Jaec said, rolling his eyes. Rolan laughed, unable to stop himself. 

The bell rang, and everyone began to slowly tread to their next classes. 

"Hey, Rolan," Jaec called, as their paths split. "Meet us after school at the arcade, okay?" 

"Sure," Rolan replied, his tone unusually enthusiastic. "I'll see you there!" 

Were Rolan's senses deceiving him? Had the lunchroom conversation really happened? 

_ I suppose I have "friends" now_, Rolan thought to himself. It was an odd sensation. He hurried to his next class, in unusually high spirits. He had allies in his war to get through high school. 

'Allies in his war...?' Rolan shook his head. Why did he always think in such _military _terms? 

Rolan pushed those thoughts out of his mind. But as he walked into Spatial Geometry class, he couldn't help but think that things would be different now. In more ways than one.   


* * *

  


Okay, so that was more of a comedic chapter than anything else (don't worry, people, we'll get to the action soon enough...) And, unfortunately, Miss Herrim is based off of a REAL teacher (scary, isn't it?) 

Next chapter we'll go back to Laira, her father, and a certain notorious bounty hunter. *dramatic music* And shortly after that we'll return to Rolan to witness an interesting scene during Art Class, and see Rolan receive the first real clue to his identity... *more dramatic music* 

Chapter 4 should be up by Sunday evening or Monday morning.   



	4. Chapter 4: A Ghost From the Past

Sorry for the delay. I am currently engaged in an epic battle against such terrible villains as **Darth Chemistry**, **Darth English Essay**, and the mighty **Emperor Geometry **and his minion, **Darth Exam**. *dodges lightsaber blows, pulls out a Boba Fett-style rocket launcher, and blows Darth Chemistry's speeder to dust* Ha-HAH! Success! Ah, but the battle is not yet won... 

Thanks for the reviews, everyone! **Shezan**, about the quibble: yes, I suppose Thrawn didn't mind improvising (in fact, he probably _welcomed _the chance to cope with unforeseen problems as a rare and exciting challenge). But Rolan isn't exactly Thrawn (not quite yet, anyway), although he too would probably enjoy using his mind through improvisation. Thanks for pointing that out. **Starknight**, glad you liked the Monty Python reference. And, you guessed right about the "certain notorious bounty hunter"...   
  


* * *

  
  


**Chapter 4: A Ghost From the Past (enter Boba Fett)**

**NOTE: **This chapter deviates a little from the rest of the story's timeline. This takes place when Laira is thirteen, during the year that VotF took place in (one year before Chapter 2). The setting is Nar Resaad, a small Hutt-controlled colony on the Outer Rim, and a home to smugglers, Huttese crime syndicates, and quite a few ordinary people living out their lives with an outward respect for the law. 

And, yes **Starknight**, this is the chapter *grins*...   
  
  


_"It is a wise child that knows his own father."_   
--Homer   
  
  


_ "Derano cannot handle everything alone, Captain Tiers."_

_ "No, he cannot, Admiral."_

_ "And what do you suggest we do about that?"_

_ "I recommend bringing in another...agent."_

_ "Another bounty hunter, you mean?"_

_ "That is not a necessary qualification, though it would be useful to employ one. Bounty hunters have certain skills useful for an Imperial operative. If a Hunter wants to live more than two weeks they must have a certain amount of...skill. As well as resourcefulness, courage, and plain intelligence."_

_ "They also have the morality of a rancor. Perhaps the late Lord Vader and the Emperor condoned the use of bounty hunters, but we are not that same Empire. I expect Imperial operatives to have a certain amount of...dignity. And cold-hearted mercenaries do not fit that qualification."_

_ "While it is true that many bounty hunters are little more than animals, a few of them fight for something greater than themselves."_

_ "I take it you have a specific Hunter in mind, Tiers?"_

_ "Yes, sir. I do, actually."_

_ "Well then, who is it?"_

_ "Boba Fett."_

_ "You don't think small, do you, Captain?"_

_ "Have you ever known me to, sir?"_

_ "No, Tiers, I have not. Although this plan of yours sounds rather unorthodox, I must admit that your plans rarely go awry."_

_ "Thrawn taught me well, sir."_

_ "Yes, Aroh. He certainly did...Very well, captain. I will go along with your plan. Get in touch with Fett as soon as possible."_

_ "I...already contacted him, sir. He agreed to aid us."_

_ "You already contacted him? Well then, the Grand Admiral taught you _very _well indeed..."_   
  
  


Two people walked into a bar. 

Both were dressed in typical spacer's garb. One was an athletic, middle-aged man wearing a nerfskin jacket. He was a head taller than the second person, who was smaller, more slender--yet by no means petite. She too wore a spacer's jumpsuit and jacket, making her look like a smaller version of the first person. 

"Hello, Derano," greeted the bartender, a former freighter pilot. His name was Avan Tholman, but the locals called him "Grandpa Ave". Apparently he had once been big in the smuggling trade, having mentored a great many younger smugglers. He had recently retired and bought a cantina-motel. However, despite his checkered background, the Wanderer's Inn had a reputation as one of the "cleaner" cantinas on Nar Resaad. Avan would always make sure that his customers remained sober enough to walk home safely, and never let any "bad news" poke inside. 

Avan gave his standard greeting, "Hello, and welcome to the Wanderer's Inn. If you're a member of Black Sun or a bounty hunter 'on business', leave here now. I aim to keep this a clean bar. Or, as clean as you can get on Nar Resaad." 

Derano smiled at the old speech. "You know I haven't been 'on business' for over ten years." 

"Hey, you know me, pal," Avan replied glibly. "I greet 'em all alike. So, 'Rano, how's life treatin' you? And is that your little Laira? Not so little anymore, I see." 

Laira gave one of her rare smiles. "It's good to see you, Avan." 

"And you too," Avan replied, a huge grin forming behind his grizzled beard. There was an awkward moment as the three stared at each other. 

Then Avan spoke up again. "Aw, what the heck." With a booming laugh, he reached out and embraced the not-quite-so-little Laira, trying to lift her off the floor, as he had when she was little. He failed. 

Laira, unused to such displays of affection, endured it for the sake of her--and her father's--old friend. 

Avan chuckled. "I remember when you were as tall as that serving droid. But time flies, I guess. Aw, where have you two been? I haven't seen you in _years_." 

"Around," Derano replied, taking a seat at the bar. Laira closely followed suit. 

" 'Around'," Avan repeated, laughing as he filled two glasses of juri juice. "Always so secretive. And _serious_. Look at your poor daughter, you're teaching her to be the same way." 

Laira gave him a Look, making sure to keep her face perfectly deadpan and devoid of all expression. 

Avan shook his head ruefully. "Naw, she's _worse _than you, Derano. Never thought I'd see _that_." 

Derano laughed, a sound that seemed unpracticed, yet vaguely refreshing. "I do all I can," he replied, referring to his parenting skills. Or lack thereof. 

"And you've done _great_," Laira insisted, looking straight into her father's eyes. 

Derano smiled ruefully. "Sometimes I think you would've been better off with your _real _parents--not gallivanting around the galaxy with me." 

"You _are_ my real parent," Laira replied firmly. From an average teenage girl, that statement would have sounded sappy and rather insincere. But Laira had little use for the sappy and sentimental things of life. She meant what she had said. Completely. 

Derano grinned at his daughter. An average family might have hugged at that point, but the Voranns were hardly average. They were not easily given to outward displays of affection, but anyone who knew them well could tell that the affection was already there. 

"Time for some music," Avan said, turning on the audio-player. He put on a lively, upbeat tune from the Modal Nodes. 

"So," Avan went on, starting a conversation that otherwise wouldn't have come up. "Has Laira found a boyfriend yet?" 

"No, we move around too much for that," Derano replied. "Thank the Force," he muttered. 

Avan chuckled. "It'll have to come sometime, Derano." 

"Not if I can help it." 

"Who needs boys anyway?" Laira interrupted. "I've _met_ boys my age--all they care about is sports, music, and something called MusicHoloTV. MHTV. MTV. Something like that." She rolled her eyes. "They are so childish." 

"They get better as they grow," Avan replied, with his usual upbeat attitude. 

"And _some _of them _never_ grow," Derano added pessimistically. 

"Then how do I find the mature ones?" Laira asked, a spark of youthful curiosity shining through her normally serious features. 

"Trial and error," Avan replied, laughing. "Sometimes you find a few sour grapes before you find the sweet ones." 

"What?" Laira asked, utterly confused. 

Avan shook his head. "Something my mother used to say. What I mean is, you may find a few bad boyfriends before you meet a good one." 

"And that's what my blaster's for," Derano interrupted, patting the holster on his belt. 

"It just takes time," Avan continued, ignoring his friend. "Though I must say,   
your dad may frighten a few of them off." 

"You say that like it's a _bad_ thing," Derano replied, giving one of his rare laughs. 

Laira smiled, amused by the two's bickering. "Well, I'm going to be _very_ selective about my first boyfriend. He will have to be mature, of course. And intelligent." 

"And able to handle himself in a blaster fight," Derano added. 

"Able to _win _a blaster fight," Laira corrected, grinning mischievously. "And handle a ship, as well." 

"He'll have to know how to deal with arrogant Imperial officers," Avan spoke up, recalling his smuggling days. "Especially if he's got a load of spice in the backseat." 

"Or a bounty hunter on his tail," Derano replied. 

"A _former_ bounty hunter, you mean," Avan said, smirking. Derano took a moment to realize that Avan had been referring to _him_. 

"I wouldn't go back to my old career for the sake of one boy ... Unless, of course, he was being a nuisance." 

"May the Force help Laira's first boyfriend..." 

The three broke out laughing. The other customers turned around to give them weird looks. 

Laira stopped laughing long enough to examine them. No, these weren't merely _confused_ looks. These were looks of_ fear_. And they weren't directed at Avan and Derano. They were directed at something _behind_ them— 

Laira immediately whirled around in her seat, her posture tensed and her senses alert. 

A hush had fallen over the entire bar. 

An armored man stood in the doorway, a large blaster rifle slung over his back. The setting sun glinted off of his armor, obscuring his features. 

Not that she would have been able to see them anyway, Laira corrected herself. For the man wore a T-shaped helmet. 

Of the Mandalorian style. 

Avan and Derano had stopped laughing long enough to sense the silent commotion. Both men turned to watch the armored intruder. 

The newcomer's mask shifted ever so slightly as he scanned the room, his gaze seeming to pierce through the bravado of every last smuggler and businessman in the place. His gaze stopped at the bar, where Derano and Laira sat. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. 

"Derano Vorann," he greeted, giving the slightest nod of his helmet. 

Derano stood and nodded in return. "Boba Fett," he replied, a slight edge to his voice. 

The armored man strode over to them, his boots making soft treading noises on the cantina's wooden floors. 

The other customers made a point of looking away. Conversation resumed—this time in hushed whispers. 

"What brings you here, Fett?" Derano asked, his tone low with suspicion. 

"Old business," Fett replied, his tone vaguely raspy and utterly emotionless. 

So this was Boba Fett. The bounty hunter extraordinaire. The merciless killing machine. A legend among criminals and respectable citizens alike. 

Laira examined every inch of the newcomer. She could spot six different lethal weapons on his person--and that was just after five seconds of looking. Laira would bet the _Starrunner _that there were at least fifteen more weapons hidden out of her sight. 

Fett noticed Laira's staring, and gave her a piercing gaze of his own. 

A bounty hunter with Fett's reputation was probably used to seeing people cower in fear at the sight of his battle-scarred armor. In fact, being so feared probably gave him a feeling of satisfaction, happiness even (if such a man could feel anything as _human_ as happiness). Well, Alaira Vorann wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch. 

Laira glared back, her posture erect and proud, never once cowering from his stare. She looked right at the helmet, at the darkened visor where his eyes were supposed to be. However, though she didn't show it, inwardly she was tense with fear. 

Boba Fett was now looking at _Derano_, as if he were examining him and his weaknesses. Laira tensed even more. Was he here to kill her father? If so, then she would have to stop it. _Somehow._

_No,_ the calm, rational part of Laira's mind told her. If he were here to kill anyone, he would have done it already. 

"I need to discuss something with you, Derano," Fett suddenly spoke. 

"Very well," Laira's father replied, his acceptance sounding somewhat forced. 

Derano's eyes met Laira's. An unspoken conversation seemed to pass between them. _Go back to the ship, Laira, I must do this alone_, Derano's gaze said. 

Laira crossed her arms in a posture that clearly communicated her reluctance to leave Derano alone with the galaxy's most infamous bounty hunter. _No way, Father. I'm staying with you._

Fett interrupted their unspoken words. He turned to Derano. "Is this your daughter?" he asked, giving a pointed look in Laira's direction. 

"Yes," Derano replied, struggling to keep his voice neutral. 

Once again, Fett turned his iron gaze on Laira. Then, after a short silence, he asked, "Are you training her?" 

"No," Derano responded, vehemently shaking his head. "_Never. _Not in the trade you're referring to." 

Derano abruptly rose from his stool, causing it to make a slight screech across the floor. "We can talk in your ship. Away from this," he gestured at the various cantina patrons, who were all eavesdropping and desperately trying to hide it. 

Fett nodded, starting towards the door, his pace neither hurried nor relaxed, merely methodical. 

Laira got up to follow, but Derano stopped her with a look. "Stay here, Laira. I'll be back soon." 

"Father..." Laira began, her voice trailing off. She shot an intense glare at Fett, who met it evenly. Perhaps it wasn't wise to threaten Boba Fett (despite the fact that it was unspoken), but Laira didn't care. 

Laira felt a hollow dread as she watched her father leave.   
  
  
  


"What did Fett want with you?" Laira demanded as soon as her father returned to the _Starrunner_. 

Derano sighed. "It's complicated, Laira." 

"Did he try to..." 

"No, he didn't try to capture me for a bounty." 

"Then why did he want you?!" 

Derano sat down, his face weary. Laira looked at her father, concerned. He seemed lost in memories. He looked at his daughter with a grim expression and eyes that had witnessed many terrible things in their time. 

"It's complicated..." Derano began, then broke off, realizing that he was repeating himself. He took a deep breath and met his daughter's gaze. "But you deserve to know." 

Laira sat down next to him. 

"You see," Derano began quietly, his tone telling Laira to refrain from asking questions until the end of his explanation, "I have known Boba Fett for a long time, ever since he was a young man just getting started in the bounty hunting trade. I was older than him, and at the time, far more experienced. But even then, I could see his potential. He wasn't just another punk amateur who gets killed their first month of Hunting. No, he was different. 

"I saved his life once. We were both competing for a bounty, a certain "sacred" jewel, to be exact...I found it first and had it stashed on my ship, and Fett--a boy of about seventeen years, with all of two month's experience as a Hunter, flying an obsolete junk heap that was about to fall apart--had the audacity to challenge my claim to it." Here Derano gave a bitter grin, though Laira sensed that he was not without admiration for the young Fett's boldness. 

"We had a bit of a dogfight, but I was more experienced, and managed to send his ship into the gravity well of a collapsing star, where I believed that his ship would eventually be sucked in and...destroyed." Laira looked up at her father, surprised at his confession. Surely her father wouldn't kill someone if he could help it. But then again, her father had once been a hardened bounty hunter...like Fett. 

_ No_, Laira told herself. _Not like Fett. My father _changed_--that's all that matters. He's not the same man he once was. He's not a ruthless mercenary. Not anymore._

Laira gave her father a slight, reassuring smile, showing him that she bore no ill will towards him for his bounty hunting days. 

Derano took a deep breath, then continued. 

"I then went to turn in the bounty in the next system. To my surprise, when I returned to the scene of the fight, I found Fett's ship, still on the outer edges of the gravity well. The ship was battered and looked like it was about to come apart at the seams, but it was hanging in there. I was impressed by Fett's tenacity, and used my ship's tractor beams to pull his out of the well. His ship was clearly in no shape to fight mine, and Fett wisely chose not to waste his efforts in a pointless act of revenge. I left his ship there, where Fett could easily repair it within one or two days, and went on to my next assignment." 

The story, however, was not yet over. 

"I later met up with him again, at a bar on Othos VII. He recognized me, and I prepared to defend myself. But Fett instead thanked me for saving his life. He said that he owed me a debt, and asked if there was any way he could repay it. 

" 'Take some advice from me, kid,' I told him. 'A _real_ bounty hunter doesn't care about debts. You don't owe me anything, Fett.'" 

"But Fett insisted. So I told him he could repay his 'debt' by helping me out with one of my bounty assignments. In reality, I could have easily handled the assignment in question alone, but I was curious to see how Fett worked. 

"Young Fett accepted my proposal, and together we took on the assignment. I was much impressed by his abilities. He definitely had potential, though he wasn't as experienced as I was. So I...coached him a little. Gave him a few tips." 

Laira was in disbelief. "You taught _Boba Fett_?!" 

Derano gave a slightly awkward smile. "Not really 'taught' exactly...but, I suppose you could call it that. It was almost a mentor-student type of thing. Very informal, though. Occasionally Fett would seek me out and ask me advice, though not that often. And the 'lessons' stopped a long time ago." 

"What was Fett's latest meeting about then?" pressed Laira. 

But Derano was no longer forthcoming. "It doesn't matter, Laira." 

Laira stood up abruptly, her hands on her hips. "Don't give me that, Father. I _know _it was something important from the look on your face!" 

"Laira, please," Derano replied, putting an arm on his daughter's shoulder. "This is something you shouldn't know about. I can't tell you any more than that, Laira. I do this for your own safety." 

"For my own safety? I am not afraid, whatever it is. Maybe I can help you..." 

"No," Derano insisted. Laira opened her mouth to object, then stopped as she saw the solemn expression on her father's face. Even more solemn that usual. And even a little frightened. 

For her? For himself? For Fett, even? 

"I love you, Alaira," Derano said, giving his daughter a brief, but strong embrace. 

"I love you too, Father," Laira replied. 

_And that's why I'm going to find out what's going on, Father--and help you, if I can..._   
  


* * *

  
  


I'm not making any promises about the date of my next update. All I can say is that it will be in about one week. (But I won't abandon this fic as long as I keep getting reviews...*hint hint*) :-D 

Next chapter we will join Rolan, Jaec, and Sorias in Art class, and (as I said earlier) Rolan will recieve the first real clue to his identity. *suspenseful music plays* 


	5. Chapter 5: Heritage

I apologize for the long wait. *gets down on knees and grovels* Well, I defeated Darth Geometry Exam. But, in true Sith tradition, another emerged to take his place: the mighty Darth School (master of all the others), assisted by such dastardly apprentices as: Darth Incomprehensible Chemistry Lessons, Darth English Essay, Darth Quarter Exam, and various others. Either way, I managed to hold them off long enough to write this. And now that I'm on Spring Break for a week *pauses to cheer wildly* I'll be able to update a LOT more. Expect another post sometime this week, probably around Wednesday.

**Chapter 5: Heritage**

_"How did I know how to do that?!"_

                        --Jason Bourne to Dr. Washburn, after "breaking down" a 

                        handgun at record time, in _The Bourne Identity_, by Robert Ludlum

**Setting: Two years later (and 3 years after VotF--Rolan is a Junior in high school)**

            "I hate Art class," Jaec complained, as the teacher launched into another boring explanation of the Nabooian Renaissance and how it affected modern art. 

            "It's not so bad," Rolan replied, after a moment's pause. "Actually, I think it's...interesting." 

            Jaec stared at Rolan in mock horror. "Interesting?!" He shook his head. "What—all the dull talks about long-dead artists or the stuff about 'technique', 'artistic metaphor', and a bunch of other junk we can't understand?"

            "Well," Rolan began, carefully considering how he could explain his interest to his close-minded friend. He felt a strange need to defend his interests. After all, the only reason they were taking a class like Three-Dimensional Art Technique was because Rolan had said it'd be "fun".

 "When you think about it," Rolan continued, "the Nabooian Renaissance artworks show how Naboo's people are changing. You know how Mrs. Klaeh keeps saying how the Renaissance took place during a social revolution when Naboo was getting rid of its caste system and all? Well, the Renaissance sculptures show this: they're more open, more colorful, more free." He paused to take a breath. "I think it's interesting, how art can reveal so much about people."

            From the other side of the table, Sorias nodded slowly, still digesting the information. "I've never thought about art that way," he said, inclining his head in the posture that Rolan had come to know meant he was deep in thought. 

            Jaec just stared at them, his mouth hanging slightly open. "Okay, that just went way over my head there, Rol. Can you slow down a little and run it by me again, in Basic this time and preferably with words of one syllable or less. Not everyone has your superior brain."

            "My brain is not superior," Rolan insisted. He had known Jaec for two years, and while his friend often seemed irrational, he was really very intelligent. Perhaps not as much as Rolan, but Jaec was no idiot. 

            "Yeah and I'm the next prince of Naboo," Jaec replied glibly. 

            "At your service, Your Majesty," Sorias spoke up, giving an exaggerated bow. 

            "I don't know if it's your heritage or what," Jaec continued, ignoring the banter. "But you're a genius. You've always done well in school, and you don't even need to try hard. I don't know, maybe your species is born with larger brains than ours."

            "Maybe," Rolan admitted. It was a valid hypothesis, despite the fact that it sounded somewhat arrogant. "But I don't know what my species is. You know that, Jaec."

            There was a short silence, as the three students pretended to listen to what the teacher was saying. 

            "We should try to find out," Sorias blurted suddenly, a look of brazen determination on his pale features.

            "Try to find out what?" Jaec asked, the darker skin of his forehead furrowed in confusion.

            "Rolan's species."

            Jaec shook his head. Sorias was too optimistic for his own good. "How many times have we been over this, Sor? If a species isn't found in the Encyclopaedia Galactica, it won't be mentioned on any New Republic database."

            Rolan held up a blue-skinned hand. "Let him speak, Jaec." 

            Jaec immediately stopped talking. When Rolan said something, people tended to obey. Jaec wasn't sure how to explain it, but Rolan had a certain quality about him that made people listen when he spoke. 

            "My father bought a new computer program," Sorias explained. "It's pretty top-of-the-line--"

            "And years ahead of the regular market, I'll bet," Jaec added, grinning. "Expensive too."

            "It has special search engine software, so it could work. It's worth a try at least." 

            "That's great, Sorias," Rolan said, grinning at his friend. He doubted it would work, for they'd already tried every other search engine and database they could find, but Sorias deserved his thanks, at least. 

            Sorias and Jaec talked enthusiastically for the rest of the class. Sorias was a bit of an idealist, and very optimistic at that. Meanwhile, Rolan was a realist. And while Jaec often professed to being a realist, Rolan knew that, deep down, he was really just as much of an idealist as Sorias. 

            Oh well. Who was he to spoil their hope? They'd find out soon enough whether Sorias's plan would work.

            "We'll meet after school, at Sorias house," Rolan decided. "If that works for you, Sorias."

            "Sure," Sorias replied. "My house is always free, mainly because my father's always out on business." His voice contained little bitterness, only resignation. He had accepted the fact that his father spent more time with his company than he had ever spent with him. 

            Jaec and Rolan looked at each other, and proceeded to change the subject. 

            "We can go to my house afterwards," Jaec offered. "Rolan, my parents can call the D-C as usual and argue till they let you out for the night."

            Rolan grinned slightly in appreciation. "Thanks. Dr. Pryko's on my back again, so I'll need all the adult intervention I can get."

            "Pryko again?" Jaec asked sympathetically, having heard of the psychiatrist from Rolan. "Don't worry, my parents'll get you out. Why's that nutcase still on to you, anyway?" 

            "Same reason as always," Rolan replied. "I am an alien, I am different, and so she assumes I am mentally unstable."

            "Just give her the Red Glare of Death," Jaec replied glibly. "Then she'll back off."

            " 'Red Glare of Death'?" Rolan asked, raising a blue-black eyebrow in feigned ignorance. 

            "Yeah," Jaec replied. "You know, that look you get when you're angry. I swear, you don't often show it, but when you're mad your eyes glow brighter. It's kind of creepy. Cool, yes, but creepy too. No offense, of course."

            Rolan simply gave Jaec a Look.

            "Ah!" Jaec cried, pretending to shield his eyes. "You're doing it again! The Red... Glare of...d-d..." Jaec collapsed on his desk in a dramatic feigned death throe. 

            Sorias simply glanced from one boy to the other, trying to hide his amusement from the teacher's prying eyes. But she saw it anyway.

            "Jaec, Sorias, Rolan, please stop talking," Mrs. Klaeh said. "Perhaps one of you three would like to tell me what type of sculpture this is?" She held up a sculpture, and looked at the trio. Please, Jaec thought desperately. Don't pick me. 

            "Jaec, identify this style of sculpture."

            Oh, great. 

            "Um...the sculpture is clearly...uh...Nabooian." 

            "Obviously. But, there are three different types of Nabooian Post-Renaissance sculpture. Which type is this?" She held up the clay model once again. 

Oh, what could Jaec guess? He didn't even know what the three types of sculpture were!

"I don't know," Jaec admitted.

            "I thought so," Mrs. Klaeh said. "Let's see if another of your little trio can answer. Rolan, perhaps you would be so kind?" Mrs. Klaeh gave a small, triumphant grin, confident that she knew how this would turn out. 

            "Yes, ma'am," Rolan replied calmly. She was looking at him like he was a dunce—and that was something his pride would not allow. Rolan began to speak, determined to prove her wrong. "The sculpture is Sejari-style, from the latter years of the Nabooian Renaissance. You can tell from the use of color, for Sejari works often incorporated more 'modern' shades like purple and red, along with traditional tones like blue, green, and yellow." Rolan paused, seeing the shocked expression on Mrs. Klaeh's face. He continued on, finding himself speaking in a precise and formal tone, "I think the artist was Keldà Delannen, though I'm not quite sure." 

            The entire room was silent. 

            "That is correct," Mrs. Klaeh said quietly. Then, after a moment, she asked, "How are you familiar with Keldà's work?"

            The scary thing was, not even Rolan could answer that question. Rolan hadn't even been listening to that part of the lecture—how had he known the different styles of Renaissance art? And he had never even heard of Keldà—or had he? How did he know all this? 

            It was another one of his random memories, Rolan knew. Something connected to the odd dreams he sometimes had. 

            Rolan decided to ignore his confusion and focus on the task at hand. Worrying wouldn't help matters. 

            "A museum," Rolan replied, searching his mind for the best excuse. "I went to an art museum once, and Keldà's work was on display."

            "I see," Mrs. Klaeh replied. For a second, she seemed...suspicious, as if she didn't quite believe him. But then she smiled, glad to find a fellow art-lover, and Rolan knew that he had just been paranoid. 

            The three boys were sprawled around Sorias's personal living room, their eyes fixed on Sorias's latest HoloGame. It was called Galactic Commander II. The case it came in was covered with pictures of spaceships and large text proclaiming: "**The best strategy game around! Control an entire fleet and blast your way to dominion over the galaxy!"**

            Jaec took the Karrde Smuggler's Consortium, as usual. Sorias, of course, played with the New Republic. And Rolan--

            "Hey, Rolan," Jaec asked as Rolan's Star Destroyers obliterated yet another one of his spaceports. "Why do you always play the Empire?"

            Rolan frowned in thought. Truth be told, he had randomly picked the Empire the first time he played Galactic Commander I, and simply stuck with them for the sake of familiarity. 

            "Because my Star Destroyers can take your smugglers' corsairs any day!" Rolan replied, grinning. 

            After one of Sorias's Mon Calamari cruisers was obliterated, Jaec complained again.

            "You always win, Rolan."

            "It would appear that way," Rolan replied neutrally, hiding a smile. 

            "But the good guys are supposed to win!" Jaec went on. "You'd think the New Republic or the smugglers is supposed to come in first." 

"But here the Empire always does!" Sorias finished, laughing at the irony of it.

            Rolan grinned at that. "Hey, you two were the ones who took the 'good guys'. What was I supposed to do, play the Hapan Royal Fleet?"

            "But you win every time," Jaec replied. "It's unnatural. I think you've rigged the game to help the Empire," he said, narrowing his eyes with feigned suspicion.

            Rolan only laughed. "I don't cheat."

            "Oh yeah? Then prove it. Switch game controls with me. We'll see just how lucky the Empire is." 

            It took Rolan a few minutes to get used to controlling the Smugglers' Consortium. After all, smugglers' ships were small and not as powerful as of, say, a Star Destroyer. But they had their advantages. Smugglers' corsairs were small, fast, and very maneuverable. 

(Quite useful for quick hit-and-run raiding missions.)

And as five of Rolan's ships took down one of Jaec's Star Destroyers, Rolan gave a rare laugh. "I don't need luck. I have skill."

"How'd you--?" Jaec began, trailing off as he lost a squadron of TIE fighters. 

"I like these smugglers," Rolan continued, his tone perfectly serious. 

"You've created a monster, Jaec," Sorias murmured as Rolan turned his guns on a Mon Cal cruiser. 

            Jaec laughed. "Rolan, it looks like we've made a smuggler out of you."

            Rolan only grinned as his ships emerged victorious once again.

            "Now that we've wasted three hours playing Galactic Commander, let's do what we came to do," Jaec said, his tone unusually businesslike. 

            "Okay," Sorias agreed, cheerfully setting up the computer terminal. "We'll start in the Exobiology database."

            "Very well," said Rolan, hiding his pessimism. 

            "How can we search for Rolan's species?" asked Jaec. "We don't even know the name!"         

            Sorias pointed to the computer screen. "The search engine doesn't need a name to work. We just need to type a basic description."

            "Oh."

            Sorias grinned as he typed on the console, clearly in his element. "We'll start with something simple. 

"Try those DROOLEAN search protocols we learned about in class," Jaec suggested, trying to be helpful.

"You mean BOOLEAN?" Rolan asked, raising a dark blue eyebrow and hiding a laugh.

            "Same thing," Jaec replied, shrugging his shoulders with teenage dignity.

"Hmmm...description, let's see," Sorias went on, ignoring the other two. Once Sorias got in front of a computer he seemed to go into a sort of trance, ignoring everything around him and staring at the screen like someone hypnotized. 

Kinda like Rolan when he concentrates at HoloGames, Jaec thought for a second. He turned the thought around in his head for a few moments, thinking about Rolan's occasional odd behavior. Then his attention-span was spent and he once again turned to look at Sorias's work.

"Well, I think the skin's the most noticeable difference," Sorias was babbling. "Now how do we phrase this academically?"

            "Say 'blue pigmentation'," Rolan directed. "That should work."

            "Okay," Sorias said, hitting the SEARCH key. "Hey, look at all the hits we have!" The computer terminal showed the names of some thirty-seven species. "All right, now we're getting somewhere!" Sorias grinned, his bright blue eyes eagerly moving down the list.

            "Great," Jaec muttered, his tone less than enthusiastic. "This will take us forever." 

**Some forty minutes and one computer crash later...**

            "Omwati," Sorias read, his normally cheerful demeanor beginning to sound strained. "Let's try this one."

            A large chart appeared on the screen, giving information like Average Height, Average Age, and Typical Eating Habits. Sorias scrolled through the list.

            "We need a picture," Rolan reminded him. Sorias obediently clinked on a MediaLink. 

            "Here's one of a woman named Qwi Xux. She's a scientist, I think."

            "She helped design the Death Star," Rolan clarified absently.

            "She did?" Sorias asked, shocked. "I never heard anything like that. All I know is that she's an engineer for the New Republic. And it doesn't say anything about her ever working for the Empire here."

            "Then...perhaps I was wrong," Rolan replied slowly, wondering why something deep within him seemed to believe otherwise. You heard Sorias, Rolan told himself. If there was nothing on the database that said Xux once worked for the Empire, then it wasn't likely to be true.

            (Unless her employment was very highly classified.)

            Rolan pushed the thought out of his mind. How would he know classified information anyway?

            "Rolan wrong?" Jaec asked from where he sat slouched on the couch. "Call the reporters! Get a holocamera! I never thought I'd see this moment!" 

            Rolan threw a precisely-aimed couch cushion in his direction. Jaec fumbled to catch it and proceeded to retaliate. 

            "Check out the picture," Sorias said, but the other two ignored him. "Oh well," Sorias sighed. "Her skin's too light of a blue and her eyes aren't close to being red." He continued to search. "Let's try the Ksssssggg. Hey, their skin's almost the exact shade of blue...oh no, wait, that's fur..."

            Jaec snickered as he prepared to launch a cylindrically-shaped pillow at Rolan's face. Rolan, however, outwitted his friend by running out of the room and entering through another door, catching Jaec by surprise as he threw a large cushion at Jaec's unprotected back. 

            Jaec and Rolan were pretty evenly matched. Jaec was the more athletic. But Rolan was taller with a longer reach (apparently Rolan's species matured faster than humans). And so the Great Pillow War continued.

            "Don't break anything, okay?" Sorias pleaded from his seat by the computer. "My dad would kill me. No, actually he probably wouldn't notice but...just don't break a lamp, alright?

            "We won't," Rolan assured him. "Come on, Sor, join the fight!"

            "I will in a second. I've only got one more record to check." Sorias turned back to the computer. 

"That's weird," he muttered to himself. "This one's listed as 'Species Unknown'." He clicked on the link. 

Rolan and Jaec were in the middle of a vicious battle when Sorias started screaming. 

"I FOUND IT! I FOUND IT!" Sorias shouted urgently. "C'mon, come in here! I found a picture of a guy that looks exactly like Rolan!" 

Rolan froze, unable to believe it. Then he shot up, not even taking the time to reply before he was at Sorias's side, his red eyes gazing intently at the screen. 

From the HoloTerminal, pair of identical red pupils peered back at them. 

            "I don't believe it..." Rolan whispered. Sorias had never seen him sound so awed. "He looks just like me...the eyes, the skin...everything."

            "Whoa..." Jaec murmured. "It's your species, Rolan."

            There was a stunned silence.

            "This is amazing!" Rolan cried, throwing a jubilant blue fist into the air. Jaec had never seen him so enthusiastic. "You did it, Sorias."

            "We all did," Sorias protested humbly.

            "No," Rolan insisted, always giving credit where it was due. "You did it." 

            "Uh...you might want to see this," Jaec said suddenly, interrupting their celebration. He pointed wildly at the screen. "You really want to see this." He jabbed Rolan in the shoulder, and motioned toward the picture. "Look."

            Rolan turned his crimson eyes to examine it. His smile disappeared, his brow furrowed, and one dark blue eyebrow rose in confusion.

            "Hey, why are there stormtroopers in the background?" Sorias asked, knowing the answer perfectly well. "And why's Rolan's look-alike wearing an Imperial uniform?" 

Cliffhanger! *laughs maniacally* Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

No, no, I'm not this evil. Really! I have the next part written and I'll finish typing it by Wednesday, I promise! Maybe even sooner, if you're nice and give me a lovely review or two. (Yes, I love feedback.) And speaking of feedback, thanks for all those nice reviews from last chapter! Greetings, Scheherezade and Neila, and welcome to the nightmare--er, story. 


	6. Chapter 6: Good Guys and Bad Guys

Ah, feedback, lovely feedback! (Actually, **Scheherezade**, my definition of a "lovely review" is simply any sort of positive response that's not a flame.) And thank you, everyone!

Oh, and sorry about the minor wait. The Internet's been down most of the night, not to mention the fact that Spring Breaks tend to breed laziness on the part of certain authors...

Well, Chapter 6 is not as humorous as the others (although there's a few lighthearted bits). Some of it was inspired from watching old World War II movies from the 1960s. But there's stuff about Thrawn and the Imperials in this chapter, as well as a nice semi-political debate!

**Chapter 6: Good Guys and Bad Guys**

            "Old soldiers never die, they only fade away."

                        --[I actually forgot where this quote comes from. If anyone knows, please 

                        tell me. Thanks!]

            "Hey, why are there stormtroopers in the background?" Sorias asked, knowing the answer perfectly well. "And why's Rolan's look-alike wearing an Imperial uniform?"

The question hung in the air, oppressive and stifling. 

"Take a wild guess," Jaec muttered sarcastically.

Rolan came back to his senses and looked at the picture caption. "Admiral Thrawn disembarks in disgrace, headed toward a mapping expedition in the Unknown Regions," he read aloud, his tone emotionless. 

Rolan had heard of the infamous Grand Admiral Thrawn. Although the Great War had been before his time, Thrawn had been mentioned a few times in his History of the New Republic class—

(a biased Rebel-affiliated source)

—and apparently Thrawn had been one of the Empire's greatest military leaders. Rolan had heard that Thrawn was an alien...but an alien of his species? Such a trick of fate seemed impossible. Rolan examined the picture some more, searching for answers.

Despite the fact that he was clearly disgraced, Thrawn's posture was poised and self-assured. His eyes were bright, seeming to bore right into you, and his shoulders were straight with precise military discipline and great self-confidence. He seemed to project an aura of wisdom and courage—almost as if he feared nothing...and knew everything.

That clearly wasn't a trait of Rolan's species, for Rolan was often greatly confused, though his dignity—and, yes, his pride as well—forbade him from showing his ignorance. 

(A leader must always show confidence, or risk damaging his crew's morale.)

His crew's morale...Rolan looked to the men around Thrawn, for Rolan knew that someone could always find out a leader's competence by examining the people who followed him. Next to the admiral was a middle-aged officer (a ranking commander) with an expression every bit as confident as Thrawn's. 

(Commander Voss Parck.)

But the man (a captain) on the other side of Thrawn had a much different expression. It was an look of fear, annoyance, and even outright hatred for the alien next to him.

(Captain Dagon Niriz.)

            Rolan scrutinized every last detail of the picture, as if engraving it into his memory...or searching for useful information. 

            —Admiral Thrawn looked out across the field, surveying the troops at his command. The cold air of Coruscant stung, made no less harsh by the mocking stares of the few civilians come to see them off. A reporter snapped a bright HoloPic of him from somewhere in the group...—  

"Thrawn?" Jaec asked, jolting Rolan out of his incoherent thoughts. "Wasn't that the same guy who attacked the Republic ten-something years ago?"

"Yes," Rolan replied quietly. "I remember hearing about that in history class."

"You must have been asleep when we learned about him, Jaec," Sorias said, with a vain attempt at humor. 

"But I thought there weren't any alien Imperials," Jaec protested. "The Emperor thought aliens were 'inferior' or something. No offense, Rolan." 

"Thrawn was the only one," Rolan replied, his voice almost too soft to be heard as his eyes blazed intensely, focused on the picture of the alien Imperial. 

"He was the guy who everybody thought came back from the dead too, right? About three years ago?" 

"Yes. Three years ago." Rolan still didn't look at them. His face was frozen, practically etched in stone. Memories sprang from the darkness, assaulting all sense of reason:

The Hand of Thrawn. Nirauan. The Household Phalanx. Admiral Voss—

Jaec gripped his friend's shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. "Are you okay, Rolan?"

Rolan took a deep breath, and seemed to become his old self again. 

"Yes," the blue-skinned boy replied, forcing a grin. "I'm fine. It's just...I never thought that the only link to my people would be..." he trailed off, shaking his head. "Just my bad luck, I suppose... Well, some good can come of this. At least it's something I can freak out Pryko with. I'd love to see her face, if she knew..." Rolan grinned, making an attempt at humor, even if it was somewhat bitter. 

Jaec and Sorias grinned back, relieved. Though Jaec was too proud to admit it, Rolan had really worried him a few seconds ago, going off into that weird trance-like state. 

Sorias moved to turn off the computer. 

"Wait," Rolan directed, holding up a blue-skinned hand. "What's the name of the species? The name of my species?"

"I don't know," Sorias replied sadly. "It only says 'Species Unknown'."

            There was a long, almost painful, silence. 

            "Let's go," Jaec said, hurrying to break the solemn atmosphere. "My mom's probably cooking dinner. And I think tonight we get cake. With Alderaanian chocolate."

            "Alderaanian chocolate?" Sorias repeated, leaning forward eagerly. There was nothing like chocolate to take one's mind off troubles.

            "Yeah," Jaec replied. "Let's get home before my dad eats it all. C'mon, Rolan."

            Rolan looked at the picture one last time, then rose to join his friends.

            "Eat, Rolan, eat," Jaec's mother urged, holding out the stew pot. Rolan obediently helped himself to more, despite the fact that he wasn't hungry. Ellaen Forton smiled encouragingly. 

            "Shhhowwaskooltday?" asked Jaec's father, Cale Forton, after taking a huge bite of nerf meat. His wife shot him a reproving look, and Cale immediately wiped his mouth and repeated, "So how was school today, boys?"

            "Boring," Jaec replied bluntly.

            "Okay," said Sorias, with his usual optimism.

            "Fine," responded Rolan, his tone perfectly neutral.

            "How was that Spatial Geometry test?" 

            "Er...what Geometry test?" Jaec asked, feigning ignorance. Seeing the look on his parents' faces, he quickly added, "Just kidding. I got a ninety."

            "Good job," Jaec's mother enthused, knowing how difficult her son found mathematics. 

            "Well...Rolan tutored me," Jaec admitted. "He deserves some credit."

            Rolan turned to his friend, one bluish-black eyebrow raised. "You were the one who studied, Jaec. I merely gave you some tips."

            Some tips indeed. Rolan had practically had to explain the entire chapter to him. Jaec just wasn't good at thinking in mathematical terms. 

            Meanwhile, Rolan was always parsecs ahead of everyone, even in things not relating to schoolwork. Jaec had a feeling Rolan could sleep through every class and still ace them. But there was something else about him as well...Jaec didn't know how to explain it, but sometimes Rolan seemed...older, somehow. More experienced. Wiser. 

            Jaec shook of the sensation and turned back to the conversation, which had progressed to recent news events. 

            "Did you hear about the Imperial-Republic naval exchange program?" Mr. Forton asked. 

            "Yes," Rolan and Sorias replied, nodding sagely. 

            "Isn't it supposed to "foster a spirit of cooperation" or something like that?" Jaec asked. 

            "Yeah," Sorias replied. "Isn't it great? Maybe now there'll be peace." Typical Sorias, ever the naïve and philosophical pacifist.

            "It won't come that easily," Jaec argued. "We were at war for nearly two decades. Besides, everyone knows those Imperials are a bunch of two-timing bigots. They're just lying to us."

            "I don't think so," Rolan interrupted, the slightest undercurrent of indignation present in his voice. "The one who orchestrated the peace treaty—Admiral Pellaeon—isn't that sort of man. He is an able military commander, used to bluntly stating his intentions through combat. He is not used to the double-dealing ways of politicians."

            Jaec bit back a "how do you know" retort and gazed at his friend. It wasn't the time to argue with him. The poor guy had just found out that the only link to his people was some dead Imperial warlord. The universe clearly wasn't being kind to Rolan right now.

            "I believe that the exchange program will work," Rolan stated suddenly. "It will give the men of both sides a chance to fight together, for common goals. And fighting side-by-side usually brings out a spirit of camaraderie between soldiers, no matter how different their backgrounds."

            Cale Forton looked in astonishment at the young blue-skinned teenager before him. He sounded like he understood. Cale had fought through the War, as an infantryman, no less, and he knew how the stresses of battle always managed to form diverse men and women into trusted comrades. But Rolan's generation had not been old enough to truly experience the War while it had been fought. No one who hadn't lived through war could come close to comprehending what it was like. 

            But Rolan seemed to. Rolan's expression, Cale saw, briefly seemed like that of an older man. A soldier. Someone who knew what it was like to fight, to kill, to suffer for their beliefs. It was an expression Cale had never seen on a boy of Rolan's age. 

            Cale felt himself unconsciously remembering his years at war...

            Rolan looked back at Cale for a moment, his bright red eyes meeting Cale's weathered brown ones. It was a look of perfect understanding. Like Cale, Rolan too seemed to be lost in old memories. Cale briefly wondered what sort of experiences Rolan had endured to become the boy—the man—who sat before him. 

            The moment passed for a moment, and Rolan looked away, his brow furrowed with sudden confusion.

            "It's progress," Ellaen declared, jolting everyone out of their thoughts. 

"Yes," Sorias agreed fervently. "Just think what we'll all be able to do once we stop shooting at each other and work together. We could really do something!"

"But the War won't be forgotten overnight," Cale murmured. "We've fought for too long to accept each other with open arms." 

"And who wants to accept the Empire anyway?" interrupted Jaec. "They're...Imperials! They destroyed Alderaan! They've killed billions of people and committed countless crimes! Who wants to ally with a bunch of murderers?!"

Rolan jumped up, his self-discipline forgotten. His scarlet eyes bored into Jaec's, pools of seemingly-unprovoked anger. 

"Typical Republican propaganda," Rolan scoffed, his voice unusually indignant. Rolan had never yelled so loudly before. "You're a victim of propaganda, Jaec," he continued, his voice growing softer and more precise, his tone changing from fury to a sort of cool calmness. His words were strangely compelling. "You have always been taught that the Empire is bad, that everyone who serves it is a cold-hearted killer. But the Empire was never about power or hatred! It was once about Order, and preserving peace in the galaxy! Sure, some power-hungry Grand Moffs used their offices to achieve their own ends, and the Empire eventually grew corrupt. But the True Empire began as something quite different. You see, after the Old Republic collapsed, the galaxy was in a state of chaos, and someone needed to restore order..." 

Rolan trailed off, realizing the weird looks everyone was giving him. Even he himself was confused by what he had said. Had he just been defending the Empire? Was he insane? 

"But all those Imperials fought for Palpatine!" Jaec retorted. "Do you know how crazy the Emperor was?! Why would they support such a freak?"

            "Because they thought that they were fighting for the True Empire," Rolan replied, his voice soft. "They did not realize that, as the Empire grew older, Palpatine and many of his close circle had corrupted everything the Empire once stood for."

            It was quite tragic, when one thought about it. How many loyal, capable stormtroopers had been sacrificed by pompous glory-seeking Moffs on badly-planned missions against people who posed no threat to the Empire? The Empire had clearly needed a stronger leader than Palpatine. A leader who could correct its problems.

            (Something he intended to do...)

A leader that had not been found...until recently, it seemed. For this Supreme Commander Pellaeon seemed like an Imperial of the "old school", one with traditional goals and ideas. 

Rolan gazed at Sorias, Jaec, and the two elder Fortons who had become almost surrogate parents to him. In their faces, he saw the effects of a lifetime of Republic brainwashing and propaganda. 

Sorias looked a cross between thoughtful and confused by his ideas. Meanwhile, Jaec was shocked and angered to hear words so contrary to everything he'd ever been taught. Rolan could see that, with time, Sorias could break through his biased beliefs. But Jaec probably never would. 

Rolan suddenly felt supremely wise, yet burdened as well. Burdened...with the obligation to help his friends think beyond their narrow-minded stereotypes.

That day had been the most notable one in Rolan's young life. It was the first time his friends saw him as anything but the average high school kid they had believed him to be.

It was also the first time that Rolan began to doubt the New Republic that he had been raised in.

*dun dun dun* And the plot thickens...

Well, the high school escapades were fun to write, but now 'tis time to briefly return to the wonderful world of action and intrigue. (The high school scenes are far from over, though, so don't worry!) Next in Chapter 7, we have an..."interesting"...field trip, not to mention another clue to Rolan's past and even one of his "flashbacks". 

(minor side note: all the Fett fans out there are going to have to wait til Chapter 9 to see him again. But, once he appears then, he'll be showing up a LOT more...Oh, and Captain Tiers will return soon as well.)

(another minor side note: Chapter 7 probably won't appear for a week. I'll try to write ahead during the few days left of Spring Break, but I have homework to finish as well...)


End file.
